


Triad

by sirius



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:08:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22634860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirius/pseuds/sirius
Summary: Filth. Pure filth.
Relationships: Alexander Albon/Lando Norris/George Russell
Comments: 8
Kudos: 82





	Triad

_July 2019 – somewhere over Great Britain_

George is deemed the most responsible one to film the three of them on the plane en route to Scotland. Their social media is as scrutinised as is the leap into F1, and the enthusiasm for triad content, in particular, presents an unchartered difficulty. Gestures that would have gone unrecorded in previous years are now the subject of analysis. It subjects their bond to tugs, and both Alex and Lando are relieved to hand over directorial control to George.

They don't need to edit when George films. Not the way they do when Lando films; an eye always on the funny shot, the joke, the unguarded moment that could thrust them into the spotlight for all the wrong reasons. Not the way they do when Alex films; an eye always on the aesthetic, the moody sundown, the wild abandon of curls thrown back, the love that would pour unselfconscious and unrestrained out into the open. George always has an eye on the two of them. Their peculiarities and foibles. The way in which they love, and rage, and record. He has an eye always on the need to turn the camera away. To professionalise them. To smooth over their intimacy. To neutralise the moments between them that tip giddily into something which, once poured over, recorded and shared, analysed as though a candidate for Cannes, would reveal everything. He reveals enough, and nothing. It is a gift.

Only George could capture the innocence of Lando glancing at the camera, Alex's ankles by his thighs, and caption it with that tale-as-mould-as-time throwaway rubbish, “bromance is real”. Only George could've noted – with eyes only – the way Lando's fingertips had, only moments earlier, been curling around the sharp bones of Alex's ankles. Only George could've captured Lando looking artfully away from the _uber-heterosexual_ Men's Health, when, only moments earlier, a sly deep smile had played on Alex's face as he'd waxed lyrical about his enjoyment of Lando's summer (and winter, and autumn, and) body. Only George could've mercilessly recorded for posterity the obnoxiousness with which Lando wraps his jaws around an apple – but not the way it renders Alex helplessly mute.

The internet laps it up; the feel of but absence of truth, the moments between much greater moments. What they don't know, etc. 

You could say that George is the brains of this outfit. That's why, at least at first, they think that Singapore is so difficult. 

By contrast, Lando is the heart, and Alex the stomach. Singapore is nothing compared to their body combined; the heartburn that is Brazil. 

_September 2019 – Singapore_

Like so many fairytales, it starts like this: “Once upon a time, in a land far far away, Romain Grosjean was driving along the road.”

In truth, it starts a bit earlier than that. Two newbie Brits head out to Singapore on the same plane, and all the heat training in all the world could not have prepared any of them for the sweat onslaught. They make their way across the airport parking lot, luggage drawn with swearing, the car a distant oasis.

“Next time I'm chatting shit about British weather,” George says. “Remind me of this.”

“I'm too dehydrated to understand what you just said,” Alex says. “Parts of me are sweating that I didn't know could sweat.”

“Lando better be in that room with massive palm leaves and a bucket of Calypsos.”

“An ice bucket. He can start with my nipples.”

“Think I'll settle for a cold flannel,” George mutters. “Don't even know how you can think about sex right now.”

“It's a gift,” Alex says. “My stamina. You'll get there one day. Don't give up hope.”

“I've never heard you complain before.”

“You know me. Selfless like that. Then again, I wanted two boyfriends for a reason.”

“You're a greedy fucker,” George says. “Christ, I swear that car is getting further away.”

“My toenails are sweating. Seriously.”

“Cheers for the mental image.”

“Just keep thinking about my iced nipples.”

“And the Calypsos.”

***

They facetime Lando from the car, once George has asked for the partition to go up. He's polite about it; explains they'd appreciate some darkness and a chance to sleep.

“Ungh,” is Lando's greeting.

“Lando. You're in an air-conditioned room with no bloody clothes on,” Alex says. “Have some compassion.”

“Alex's toenails are sweating,” George adds.

Lando fixes them both with a look. “It's not that much better inside. And I don't want to hear about anyone's toenails.”

“Alex wants his nipples icing.”

“Alex can fuck off.”

“F1 has turned him into such a diva,” Alex says. “He no longer recognises his elders and betters. Think about the poster of me in your bedroom, Norris. He'd want you to do the icing without backchat.”

“I was 11 when I put that up,” Lando says. 

“Jesus,” George says. 

“Cockblock accepted,” Alex says, mournfully. “Are there at least Calypsos?”

“Er,” Lando says.

“Lando!”

“There's _a_ Calpyso.”

“What happened to the rest?”

“I got hot.”

“This is why you'd be the boyfriend we'd vote off the island. You're the one we can sacrifice. The third wheel. The reserve driver.”

“Alex, stop being a twat,” George says. “Lando, go and get more Calypsos.”

“No. It's too hot.”

Alex looks at George, eyebrows comic. “Twice now he's disobeyed direct orders.”

“You know what I think,” George says. “I think we should hang up and discuss what to do with him.”

Egged on by Lando's refusal to take the suggestion as a punishment, George and Alex spend the remainder of the ride home plotting.

***

“This? This! Is _not_! Fair.” Lando says. He's relegated to the chair under the air conditioning unit, which would in all other circumstances be his preferred spot. However, this circumstance involves George and Alex lying next to one another along the bed, naked, newly showered, glistening, wet-haired. Sharing the spoil that Lando has left them with.

The one Calypso.

First, Alex holds the cone whilst George leans in and swipes the length with a confident tongue. Then, they switch, and Alex applies his preferred digestive method; full lips enclosing the top, and a good suck. They're both strategies that Lando likes, when not deployed on an ice lolly, and he's all the crosser for being relegated to witness them from a chair. 

“Not our fault you were a greedy mug,” Alex says, taking the cone in his hand. “We could've all had one each. Then you wouldn't be in this position. Hey, G, you're getting me with that tongue. That's kinda hot.”

Lando purses his mouth and breathes hard through his nose.

“Mm,” George says. “I got some on my mouth.”

“Yeah, you have,” Alex murmurs.

“I'm not greedy like Lando,” he says. “I'll share.”

Alex's upturned mouth is directly proportional to Lando's downturned, as it disappears against George's orange-smushed lips. They kiss deliberately noisily; George taking an unusual lead because Alex is still holding the cone. He cups the back of Alex's neck, holding them in place, the kiss extending far beyond what would be strictly necessary to remove traces of orange juice.

“I'm still here!” Lando snaps. 

“You've had your Calypso,” George says. “And mine.”

“I haven't had any kisses though.”

“You'll have to ask nicely then.”

Lando folds his arms. Fights with himself. Alex, still smirking, doesn't look at him. Applies gentle pecks instead. It's enough. It's always enough.

Lando stomps across the room and makes room for himself between them. Laughing, Alex lifts the cone over his head, spraying icy orange all over, as George rolls Lando over onto his back. Wordlessly, George and Alex pass the cone between them, and George swipes the length with abandon. Lando watches sullenly as Alex leans across, one hand against Lando's stomach for leverage, and slides the top into his mouth, George's tongue-tip and all. 

“Hey!” Lando says. 

Smiling, they pull back, and George hands the cone off to Alex. He nudges him back, making room for himself to slide a leg over Lando's body and then down, bringing their torsos, stomaches, hips together. Alex contentedly finishes the cone as George dips pelvis down and Lando's head and chin come back, a long needy sigh filling the space between them.

George takes Lando's face in his hands, and kisses him. There's a taste, warm and sweet, of orange and of all three of them. Of familiarity. Alex sits by, calm, and lets it play out. Lando responds to George's touch differently than to his, and he never tires of watching it. 

“He doesn't deserve his cock stroked,” he says. 

“No,” murmurs George, against Lando's mouth. “He really doesn't.”

Lando's objection goes muffled and muted. 

“He wants it, though.”

“'Course he does.”

The second objection is less muffled.

Alex moves around for a better look, his tone turning cheerful. “He's not far off the lolly, actually.” Sucks loud, for effect. “They're both dripping wet down themselves.”

George snickers as Lando reaches out a hand to find, and to hurt, Alex. Captures the fist in his own, brings it up to his mouth, kisses it. “Behave,” he says. 

“Fuck-” Lando says, mouth released.

“Behave.”

Lando's eyes lock with his, furious, but he begins to grudgingly settle. George laps his own fingers with his tongue, at first sticky, then harder to remove it. Then, when his hand is warm and ready-wet, he lowers it down Lando's body, and takes him in his hand. Lando's eyes close and his released fist falls loose.

Alex, too, goes quiet. George stretches out onto his side, getting comfortable, as Lando starts to shyly move up into his touch. The hum of the air conditioner mirrors their mutual breathing. The Calypso is forgotten, dying the sheet a Trumpian hue.

“Alex,” George says, as Lando eases into a rhythm. His lips are on the underside of Lando's jaw, and Lando's fingers are in his hair.

“Mm,” Alex says, dazed. His hand is moving between his legs. 

“Take over from me.”

Alex looks between the two of them. Lando's eyes open, slowly, still reproachful. 

“Play nice,” George says, in his ear. 

Lando opens his mouth to snap back, and George gently tugs at a curl. “I said, play nice. I haven't told him how to take over yet. If you want your dick sucked, shut your fucking mouth.”

Lando, at once, quietens. Alex's eyes are all heat, now. He hasn't stopped touching himself. He's just watching George, watching the control he has. Watching Lando, prone and needy and pleasured against him. He can see Lando pulsing in George's hand, and knows he's playing a dangerous game. There's not long left in it, and all of them know it.

“Please,” Lando says, an angry whisper, and as always, it's enough.

“Mouth,” George says, to Alex. Then, he looks at Lando, repeats himself. 

It takes a moment to arrange. Alex is the tallest of them, Lando the shortest. There's tension, because Alex has dropped his cock and George has dropped Lando's. Neither of them – empty-handed – are content with the shifting of limbs and the rebalancing of weight to get Alex above Lando, and it shows in abrupt gestures, irritated huffing. Only when Alex pragmatically prioritises Lando, sucking him into his cold wet mouth, does an easy truce settle over them. Lando responds in kind, hands around Alex's thighs, pleased at hunger beginning to sate.

George lies back beside them, propping his head with his hand, eyes lidding as he touches himself with fingers wet from Lando. Takes in what he's engineered. Watches pleasure spill out, and around, and between. Finding the balance between Alex and Lando is never easy, but George makes it look effortless. And in moments like these, he takes his fill of it. 

In watching, he goes blind, and misses the ungainly circle of Alex and Lando's hand, formed wordlessly by their side, communicated through pleasure alone. They shift it indelicately over, nudging the head of George's cock with it, prompting him to help them to hold him. When he manages it, the unusual sensation of yin-yang hands, upside down and righted simultaneously, is almost too much to bear. The room swings, he knows without knowing that he has shouted, and surreptitiously they all move closer and closer together. Grace is abandoned, skill is unnecessary; all that matters is slick mouths, tight hands, the feel of one another in such close proximity; those familiar gasps, grunts, aborted attempts at words. The way that neither of them know which name they should ascribe to which sudden dart of pleasure. The deliciousness of unknowing, as always, is undoing. 

Is undone.

***

A cruel person would ask what difference a DNF made, in George's circumstances. He's over halfway through a season, without points, without prospect of obtaining any. Each race feels like a replay of the one before. A sad, noble old team. Were history the future, each race would threaten a podium. Instead, Williams retreats further into the past with every Sunday that passes uncelebrated. Neither Lando nor Alex can relate to his position. But both keenly know the pain of being taken out. Of hard work squandered in a second, and not even the comfort of self-flagellation available.

They do their interviews in the artificial football lights at 1am, an absurd reversal of normal practice, and head back to the hotel with bones dry and weary.

Alex looks at Lando, awaiting the passage of team personnel. The crowd around the lifts shows no sign of abating in the bottleneck, and so they take the privacy of the stairwell.

“G's room?” Lando asks. George wasn't in the media pen, nor the garages. Neither of them are certain that their instinct to go to him is right. But there's strength in numbers. Alex nods. They ascend in silence. Alex texts George a warning, and once he gets a read receipt, they pace slowly. Waiting for the coast to go clear.

George answers the door, but somehow it's not George. Alex and Lando exchange a momentary glance, an minute communication of alarm, an agreement as to who is to take the lead. Alex walks George back into the room, and Lando checks the corridor one final time before closing the door. When Lando turns around, Alex has led George back to the bed to sit down. It's clear that he's had a drink, and that coupled with the massive dehydration of the race has glossed him hard.

Alex gets them both back against the headboard with light touches. He nods at Lando to drop the temperature down on the air-con, and Lando grabs a water bottle from the mini bar. Only one or two of the mini bottles are missing, which is reassuring. Lando climbs up on the other side, hands George the bottle. George, deflated, drinks. 

They sit quietly, the three of them. No words need to be said. None are offered and then awkwardly withdrawn. They all simply sit, facing the onslaught together, shoulder to shoulder. George's breathing begins to slow, almost as though the bad feeling is draining from him into them through skin. As if simply existing in his space, they are taking on his burden. 

In the end, it's Lando who takes his hand. Turns it over, feeling the knuckles and the joints. Fingerpads easing the bones and the tired muscles between. George closes his eyes, finishes the bottle of water, which Alex takes from him. Lando brings his hand up to his lips, kisses the curled up fingers of his fist. 

George looks at him, lidded. There's a moment when Alex doesn't truly know which way the scales will tip; whether George is hurt enough, exhausted enough, to try to push through the pain to find warm human touch. To chase what he cannot feel, to take it from another person instead. The uncertainty passes in a heartbeat, and George shucks up, curls himself down into Lando's shoulder, taking him with him. They lie down like that, still clothed. Alex waits for them to settle, and then moves down into his place behind George. Their battered cocoon remains for hours after noon, when the evening finally brings a wounded peace.

_November 2019 – Brazil_

There is no long night's journey into day where Brazil is concerned. By contrast, Brazil is a shameless Catherine wheel of anger, envy, guilt, self-pity. To name but a few.

Pain starts with Alex. Lewis costs him his first podium. It then moves on to Lando. Lewis' penalty grants Lando's teammate his first podium. Lando joins the celebrations, his face fixed in a smile, trying desperately to pay Carlos back for all of the support and encouragement he's given him. For not being Fernando Alonso to his Lewis. It pains George to see the smile. He's been there. Alex, meanwhile, has slumped with the effort of having to share his grief with Lando. 

George – vaguely hysterical at his own 12th place finish – makes the decision to drive them out of the city. His hazy intention is to head for Serra do Mar State Park, which he'd read about in an in-flight magazine on the way out. The darkness soon makes this infeasible, and so he decides instead to take a slow drive through the São Paulo countryside. Alex is in the passenger seat, agitating his lower lip with his teeth. Lando is stretched across the backseat, headphones in, head back against the window. He slows to a stop in a clearing, where the rising moon is starting to peek out from between the valleys, and turns the engine off. 

“Who wants to go first?” he says. 

Lando leans his head over, taking in their reactions. Alex is quicker to react, frowning. “If you're throwing us out, you can fuck off.”

“I meant talking,” George says. “I've got some Percy Pigs somewhere in here.”

“Fuck,” Alex says. Then, quieter, “alright. I'll take a pig.”

“That's the spirit,” George says, rummaging in the glove box. 

“I just. Fuck!” Alex says, rapping the sun visor hard with his hand. “I'm so pissed off. I know it happens. I know it's racing. But fucking- he's- the one race where he makes one mistake, and it happens to me. Fuck!”

George extracts the bag of Percy Pigs, hands them to him. “I was rooting for you,” he says.

“Thanks.” Alex says. Chews. “I just really don't want this to end. I have this like... fear, of 2012, all over again. And you never know where you are with Red Bull, anyway. At Toro Rosso, I felt like 2020 was pretty certain. Now, I don't know. I'm just so pissed off.”

“It's not going to be 2012,” George says. “You're better than that.”

“It's hard, though, when your teammate gets the result,” Lando says, quietly. “You have to fake happy, but you're also a bit happy? And that sucks. Because you don't want to be happy for them. You just want to be sad for you.”

“Yeah,” Alex says. “I guess that's easier for me. Carlos is much nicer than Max.”

“Max is a machine,” Lando says. “We'd all kill for that kinda start. But you're both doing such a fucking good job. Alex, you have to go up against him, and everyone who's tried that before has basically been sacked or had to leave, and-”

“Thanks, Lando-”

“You know what I mean. And G is basically destroying Robert. You're both doing really well. It's me that's like... I don't know. I just wanted to bring home a good result. They all know Carlos is great. I'm kinda...” 

He holds his hand flat, tilts it slowly from side to side. 

“You know that's rubbish,” George says, not unkindly. “It's just today talking.”

Alex swivels around in his seat. “Christ,” he says. “Have you heard us? The compliments? It's tragic. We need to stop.”

“Good point,” George says. “Alex, you knob, you've cost that team at least 14 million quid in front wings. Pull yourself together.”

Alex thumps him. “Least I'm not pointless.”

“Exactly,” George says. “Fuck me, the pair of you. Buck up. Some of us have real problems in this car.”

“I like compliments,” Lando says.

“Shut up Lando,” Alex says, cheered.

“Alright,” he says. “Can I have a pig?”

Alex tosses him the bag, and they all chew in silence. 

“What happened to McLaren keeps Williams going,” George says. “Every night when they go to bed, every member of that team is thinking about your results. Both of your results – yours, Carlos'. It's the light at the end of the tunnel and all that. It's bigger than all of us. I know that sounds wanky-”

“Wanky,” Lando echoes, with a snicker.

“But it's true.”

“You're doing good,” Lando says. “It helps them just to have people like you there, you know. Being positive. Not being negative. Not letting it get them down. Still showing up, ready, and all that. When I came in at McLaren it didn't really feel like that. It does now. It helps.”

“I can't add anything,” Alex says. “Red Bull thrives on all of our tears. Our misery only fuels them.”

George cracks up, and Lando follows. 

“You're laughing at my pain. Just like Helmut Marko. I see how it is.”

“Thump him for me,” Lando says, and George obliges.

***

“We could start a fire. Roast the pigs. Make s'mores out of them. S'migs. S'pigs?”

“Lando, I swear to God-”

“I can't help it if I'm hungry.”

“How would you start a fire?”

“Sticks. Don't you just rub sticks together?”

“Can't we put him back in the car?”

“I'm trying to enjoy the quiet.”

“Yeah, Lando, shut up.”

“You shut up, Alex.”

“One day, we'll look back at this moment, maybe with fondness, and-”

“We'll all wish Lando had shut up.”

“Alright, we won't look back at this moment with fondness. I take it all back. Lando, I can hear your stomach rumbling.”

“I can't help it.”

“It is beautiful though.”

“My stomach?”

“No, the- you know. The trees. The moon.”

“Wanky.”

“Lando, for fuck's sake-”

“Alright, alright.”

They all sit quietly, backs against the car. The moon is high, now. The trees are laden with scent and in the quiet, the effect is intoxicating. Not one of them can really see the others, but the mutual touch of their thighs against one another is comforting. Animals rustle and hoot, and the wind inflates the leafy bronchi all around. 

“I never want to take any of this for granted,” Lando says, quietly. He can't see – more feels – the other two nodding.

***

They all get bollocked for the disappearing act, when they show their faces again. When 'phones ping activation signals, when PRs are notified that the search party can be called off.

Still, it's worth it.

They use Lando's room this time. Random selection keeps the chances low of being overseen. They drag their jasmine scent into the room and dump clothes on the floor. The scent lingers on the steam of the shower, and they divvy up tasks with practised hands. Everyone washes somebody else's hair. Lando gets the biggest towel; George the smallest. Alex teases him that it's because he wants to show off his abs, like always. The fact that he's leering at them somewhat undermines his point.

The sex is initiated in the same way; practised, without conversation. Alex lies down on his back on the bed, and George follows, climbing over his hips and leaning down into his collarbone for a kiss. Lando follows, tucking onto Alex's thighs, and guides George back up for a second round of kisses. Alex watches George fold back into Lando's warmth as easily as he folds forward, catches Lando's eyes hot under the mass of damp curls, smiles. They pass George back between them, little thrums of heat, touching one another through him. At Alex's urging, the kisses become more urgent, more powerful. At Lando's coxing, they slow and deepen. George is the current through their moods, not chased but free to follow each instinct at his own whim. There is no competition. Each feeds into one another his own energy. 

“What do you want?” Lando murmurs, in his ear. 

George thinks, for a moment, and then climbs off. 

“Lando, take Alex's place,” he says. The next part he does wordlessly, with both Alex and Lando's eyes locked on his every last movement. On hands and knees, he backs into Alex and leans his torso down over Lando's thighs. Lando makes a sharp high moan as he takes the head of him in his mouth. It finds its echo in Alex's throat as George uses his feet to coax Alex forward, right against him. The instruction – _fuck me_ –goes unspoken.

George is sensible enough to remove his mouth whilst he's prepped. Lando is horny enough to be chagrined that he does so, until he recognises the benefit of clear eyes; George looks bloody good with Alex's fingers inside him. Their double act is intuitive. George moves back as confidently as Alex moves forward, outward. They work as one, as if Alex anticipates every last gasp. Lando's fingertips stroke George's ribs as he stretches his spine out, over him, extending the sensation. They kiss messily, when it's too much. A series of murmurs is enough to establish that it's enough, and when Alex replaces his fingers, Lando is ready for it – that first aching hard kiss of it, being taken, being felt, being made whole. He knows what it feels like well enough. Feeling it through George is another sensation altogether. 

George arches, then, from flat back to dipped, his elbows down and Lando's cock balanced against his jawline as he glances backward at Alex. Alex's hands are gripped as he adjusts to the tilt, nods gritty, eyes starting to close. Lando sighs as George takes him in his mouth; confident, true. They find a rhythm. Alex can only go as fast, as steady, as urgent, as George can take in his mouth. They all know it. They all know that it's Lando, from underneath, from the base of the pyramid, who is in charge. It's a line of smoke that runs through them, binds them in fire. George uses his thighs as hard to push back as Alex uses his own to refrain from pushing forward; the friction between their legs as audible as the frustration in their mouths. To tease, Lando wraps his hand around his dick, a barrier to George that pushes him back into Alex, pushes Alex further and harder into him. Grins wide, head back, as it works and Alex snarls into his own collarbone. 

Alex retaliates in kind; he takes George for himself, pulling him into his thighs, stroking his stomach with both hands, straightening him flush against his own body. Moving his hands, both, to George's cock. Stroking, long, languid; George has little incentive to crouch back down when he's getting pleasure two-fold. Lando deploys a different tack; he wraps his ankles around George's torso, splitting the pair of them, encouraging George back towards him. George whines at the loss of contact with Alex, which forces Alex to come too, to fuck harder, to keep the pleasure going. This, unlike before, is a competition. Against his own self-interests, George is compelled to take more of Lando in his mouth, to hear the sound of his gunfire heart in his gunfire breath. Alex can do nothing but follow him down; desperate to please him. He finds Lando's feet, redirects them against his own sides, pressing the three of them close. George is – thank God – the most flexible of the three of them, taking the bend without complaint but reaching for Alex's hand, guiding it around his cock, sighing relief on Lando's. This close together, the sway isn't precise, isn't neat, isn't expert – but most importantly, it does the job. It allows the current to run through, to strike each one of them where needed and convert the rest to heat. 

In the last moments, Lando's hips rise and his torso with it, his chin tipping all the way back. Alex looks down at the continuous curve; George's spine to George's nape of neck to Lando's groin, Lando's hips, Lando's stomach and chest, the deep groove of his vulnerable extended throat. The pulse beats there. The sound jumps there. The blood pools underneath the pale white shoulders. Alex hears the same blood in his ears. It thuds, and it thuds, and it thuds – until the thunder breaks, and the world slips out of focus, and what remains is tinged dark blue.

***

“I may need a crane to get me out of here,” George says, woozily. “And a new spine.”

“Ungh,” Lando says.

“See, that's what I like about you, Lando,” Alex says. “You're always so helpful.”

***

They film a comical feature where they hash it out for honour of being voted the fan Rookie of the Year. All of the unspoken worries passing between them on a bed in Singapore; everything said at the base of a valley in a Brazilian rainforest – these things flicker in moments of footage, like gold in an underground mine. The internet laps it up; the feel of but absence of truth, the moments between much greater moments. What they don't know, etc.

Alex takes their vote, Lando takes the public vote. A cruel person would say this reflected George's season, somehow; the only one crown-less. George pays it no attention. Lando's heart is desirous of public approval. Alex's stomach, churned up by years in the Red Bull programme, is hungry for the recognition of his peers. George is the brains of the outfit. He knows, as do all wise men, that good things come to those who wait.


End file.
